You’re on your feet, sweating enough to douse a mild inferno. The pounding thrum of bass saturates the air, accompanied by a choir of voices chanting breathlessly in an Arceii dialect that was too thick to understand without a translation program running in primary. The sounds that shook the walls of the building were tuned to the most primal urges in man, a competition in auditory conditioning that had lasted a millenia driving the quality of the club sound to a peak. It was near formulaic, now. A mathematical science. Though some might argue that Alexandrians had run out of ideas, that their work lacked originality, the reality of the situation saw that the art of clubbing had been refined down to a blade so sharp it pierced your skin and mind painlessly. A wide array of meager cutting tools had been whittled down to a few appropriate scalpels. And poignant they were, drawing animalistic behaviors to the surface that tens of thousands of years of social evolution had tried tirelessly to bury. Fireworks of dopamine crowded the brain, just as patrons crowded this den.
You’re moving, writhing, contorting shamelessly, pressed up against a rather dramatic example of the boundless possibilities of Alexandrian cosmetic adaptations. She (he? It?) seemed to be enjoying herself, a primal, foreign grin upon her face, iridescent cerulean scales gleaming like a school of minnows caught in the tumult of the surf. A crimson braid of hair swung to the beat, and her emerald eyes were fixed upon you, intently, examining you like a predator would prey. Nothing about her was natural, but it blended seamlessly enough that you didn't complain. The way she was moving pinned her as a Luxite. Some immeasurable grace tinged even the most clumsy of movements. Or maybe you were letting the pills speak for you. Everyone was taking them, but it was causing difficulties with the neural mesh.
Posted: Wed Feb 24, 2016 6:55 am
